


Insanitas per aquam

by advictim



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 13:05:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17002212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/advictim/pseuds/advictim
Summary: Sometimes all it takes is to change a scenery.





	Insanitas per aquam

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of those that turned out very differently from what I had in mind. My writing skills didn't do justice to the idea, but I enjoyed the process nevertheless.

John woke up with a start from a knock on the door and sat up straighter at his desk. A nurse peeked in.

“Your next patient is here, Dr Watson.”

John attempted an alert smile. “Send him in after five minutes, will you?” 

The nurse nodded and closed the door again.

John had to get a grip of himself. He was exhausted, taking more shifts than he could possibly manage and the worst part was that he did this to himself. It was stupid, how badly he handled the situation, and yet, he couldn’t think of a way to make it better. John did not want to go home, not yet. Home was a place where Sherlock was, John’s flatmate and best friend.

By all accounts, John should have hated Sherlock. Maybe not really hated, but at least be annoyed by Sherlock’s rudeness, self-absorbance and an ability to make their flat inhabitable with his vile experiments. Just yesterday, John came back from a very difficult workday to find Sherlock slumped on the sofa and all their mugs and bowls, which were clearly intended for food and food only, filled with sewage water. With bits floating. It made John gag just thinking about it. Sherlock only threw “experiment” as an excuse, as if that was supposed to justify soiling their dishes. John was still mad, but at the same time, it was just Sherlock being Sherlock. John wouldn’t want him to be anything else. John liked Sherlock just like that, and there was the heart of the problem – John liked Sherlock a little too much. In fact, John liked Sherlock so much, that the things he wanted to do to Sherlock were dirtier than that sewage water, so honestly, John had no moral high ground to stand on, and so he tried to hide in the clinic, pretending that he was needed there more than he really was. 

A nurse opened the door again, followed in by a fragile looking old man. John straightened the lapels of his white coat, gestured for the patient to sit and set to work.

John drove himself to exhaustion. He wasn’t thinking clearly anymore, and his temper was shorter than ever. At this rate, he might strangle Sherlock before even having a chance to find out if Sherlock would terribly mind being kissed. The cases usually provided a welcome reprieve, allowing him to safely indulge in admiring Sherlock, without giving away the depth of the feeling. Sherlock on a case was safe to be next to, but a caseless detective was a dangerous creature, nosy and scrutinising, too curious about the details John would have liked to keep hidden. John marched towards Baker Street and ruminated about all the ways Sherlock made the situation worse. It seemed that the more time John tried to stay away, the less considerate Sherlock became, always demanding attention, always standing in the middle of John’s path, always probing, deducing and observing, never leaving John a chance to gather his thoughts. It was less like living with a first class detective and more like with a toddler left at daycare for a first time.

John abruptly stopped in the middle of the street, barely registering the disgruntled apologies of the passers-by that bumped in to him. Did Sherlock act the way he did because he missed him? Sherlock was known to claim that he needed no one, but at the same time, John was always the exception. If there was a slightest chance of returned feelings, John would have liked to know that, but how to start asking, when the person in question was at the same time enigmatic, socially inept and a damn drama queen?

At home, Sherlock was not on sulking the sofa, which could have been a good sign, if it wasn’t for Mycroft, who was sitting opposite Sherlock in John’s armchair. They were clearly in some disagreement. A thick manila envelope was lying on a table between them, so it must be some case Mycroft was trying to persuade Sherlock to take. John usually took Sherlock’s side in these arguments, but Sherlock needed a case and John wanted a distraction, so he went in with a more open mind than usual. 

And then Mycroft said some magic words. 

“A health resort. A SPA, if you may. I want you to go there and check the lead,” Mycroft patiently repeated after John asked him to. “We’ve been reliably informed that the information leaks come from somebody working there.”

“There’s nothing to investigate if one of your minions lost an USB flash on his way to Jacuzzi,” growled Sherlock, folding tighter in to his gown. Witch he probably wore for a third day straight.

“None of my employees are involved. It’s about the trade secrets of one of the biggest car factories in the country, all of this is in the file, if you cared to read it.”

“We’ll go,” said John, before Sherlock finished his eye roll. 

“It’s barely a four, John!” whined Sherlock.

“It’s in a SPA, Sherlock!” retorted John, while Mycroft watched them as if it was a tennis match. 

“You can leave, Mycroft, I really can not be bothered,” said Sherlock, reaching for his violin. 

“We’ll be there tomorrow,” assured John and Mycroft left. 

John closed the door behind Mycroft and stopped to think for a minute. It was risky, going somewhere with Sherlock only, but on the other hand, if Sherlock would be busy enough with the case, John might have a chance of getting his thoughts in order. Changing the scene would do good for both of them, and who knows, maybe it’s just the opportunity John needed to find out what Sherlock thought beyond simply being married to his work. 

Sherlock was digging his heels until the very last minute, but John pretended he was about to go without him, and surprisingly, it did the trick. Despite Sherlock‘s sulking, John felt quite optimistic in the train. He took a few days off and welcomed the familiar excitement of the case, though this one promised to be more Sherlock insulting the staff of the SPA than chasing someone all over shady alleys. Halfway through the journey John opened the file to occupy himself, and Sherlock snatched it from his hands. The great detective was not so indifferent to the case after all.

When they finally arrived, John was immensely glad he convinced Sherlock to go. The place was gorgeous, tastefully luxurious and definitely not something John could ever afford on his own. He left Sherlock to deal with the receptionist and sort out their rooms, and wandered about in the lobby, taking it all in – the huge paintings of bright landscapes, subtle living flower arrangements and carefully placed nick knacks decorating the place. The colours were all soft pastels or various tones of white, with some gold here and there to justify the price of the rooms. John could already feel the tension of the week starting to drain. 

Out the corner of his eyes, John saw Sherlock walking away from the reception and trotted after him towards their rooms. 

“The receptionist is useless,” grumbled Sherlock.

“Why? Anything wrong with the rooms?”

“Why should I care about the rooms? The case, John, she’s new here and useless for the case!”

When John went in to his room, Sherlock wandered in behind him, looked around and went out without a word, only to reappear a moment later through the connecting door, roll his eyes and shut those as well. They had adjoining rooms then. John wandered if it was a coincidence, or Mycroft arranged for that, and what it meant, if he did. Most probably, Mycroft expected John to rein Sherlock in, as the detective was so reluctant to take this case.

John looked around his room. It was spacious, the bed was huge, and there were a couple of comfortable armchairs around a small coffee table. John left his luggage and went through the connecting door to Sherlock’s room. It had an equally big bed, but itself was much smaller, with just one chair in front of the writing table.

“What’s the plan for today?” asked John.

“Mingle about and take part in some of the so called rejuvenating activities that this place offers. Observe the staff,” said Sherlock, hanging up his spare shirts and trousers.

“Right. What do you want me to do?”

“Take a yoga class. I’ll visit a masseur, he’s one of the longest working here.”

They went to the lobby, where a handsome muscular young man in a white uniform was already waiting. He was pleasant and professional, asked Sherlock if he had any injuries or spine problems and then led Sherlock away, leaving John to look for a yoga class on his own.

John had an inkling that Sherlock wanted him to take a yoga class only as a petty revenge. John was never very bendy and his injuries prevented him from a full range of movement, and the chirpy young instructor was more prone to spouting spiritual nonsense then helping the attendants to do the poses properly. As a cherry on top, most of the class were experienced enough to do most of the damn asanas effortlessly, while John fumbled even through the most basic ones. All this, while Sherlock was enjoying a massage by that gorgeous man, who probably was much more capable at his job than the yoga instructor had any chance to be. Contrary to the whole yoga spirit, John was furious by the time the class ended. 

Sherlock was nowhere to be found, so John went for a swim. The pool was his favourite part of the physical therapy while he was recovering and he managed a decent stroke despite his shoulder. Lap after lap of rhythmic moves calmed him down and he forgot about the yoga class before he climbed out of the pool for a rest. 

Sherlock was already there, lying on a sunbed, still glistening with the massage oil, nearly ethereal in a white fluffy robe. John took a few moments to absorb the sight of him like that, grateful for the physical exhaustion of the exercises and swimming.

“How was the massage?” asked John, joining Sherlock on a next sunbed. 

“Acceptable. The masseur has nothing to do with anything. The instructor?”

“An idiot.”

“Thought so. The catering then – we’ll go to dinner.”

John thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to go to dinner anyway.

At the dinner table, they were seated with a couple of women. The policy of the place was to make guests mingle with each other, make new acquaintances and form connections as part of getting better spiritually ritual. John enjoyed the company – the women, though both had husbands at home, were chatty and attractive, but Sherlock was positively sulking, not contributing to the conversation at all. At least he was eating – the day’s activities must have made even him hungry and the food was excellent despite the expected nod towards being healthy. He and Sherlock ate way too much noodles and curries, it would do them good to have something green and steamed once in a while. 

“You two are cute,” chirped the blonde woman, Kristen, when John gave Sherlock all his peas without being asked, and took the mushrooms from Sherlock’s plate. “How long are you together?”

“A few years,” replied John, not even bothering to deny the implication. Sherlock didn’t even hear it, scanning the surroundings and observing the staff. John noticed nothing out of the ordinary, but then, he barely ever did. 

As the evening grew longer, Sherlock got more and more restless. John would have been glad to stay longer, have a bit of more wine, but it was obvious Sherlock needed something, so John excused for them both and left with Sherlock. They came back to John’s room, where Sherlock started pacing and spouting his deductions at a speed John had no chance of following. Sherlock made long pauses where he just paced the room, but he didn’t ask of any contributions from John, so he decided to just start getting ready for bed.

When John came back from the bathroom, Sherlock was lying on a bed in his typical thinking pose. John would have preferred Sherlock to choose his own bed, but since Sherlock left a wide enough side for him, he wasn’t about to complain – John was tired and it didn’t seem worth the effort. 

“Buckle up,” said John, trying to cosy in the bed. “I need the covers.”

Sherlock wiggled a bit, but didn’t leave. At least John was finally able to cover himself properly.

“None of the staff could have done it,” said Sherlock out of the blue. “Mycroft’s intelligence must have been wrong.”

“How likely is that?” asked John, barely able to keep his eyes open. 

“Not at all,” answered Sherlock. “And yet, I can’t find any other explanation.”

John closed his eyes. He heard Sherlock starting another one of his monologues and sincerely tried to listen, but sleep overcame him before Sherlock had a chance to finish a sentence.

When John woke up, it was already morning. Next to him, Sherlock was sleeping, still in on his back, but his hands were lax and face turned a little to the side. John felt his heart flutter. The ridiculous man probably fell asleep in the middle of his rant, or that Mind Palace exercise of his. It was rare for Sherlock to sleep properly in the middle of the case, but John was certain it would do him a world of good. John stayed in bed, observing his companion, trying to be as still as possible, to even regulate his breathing so he wouldn’t wake Sherlock up. Despite that, not long after Sherlock opened his eyes.

“Why is it already morning?” asked Sherlock the moment he woke up.

“Because you slept through the night,” John told him, amused. 

“I wasn’t sleeping!”

“Sherlock, you were snoring!”

Sherlock looked at John so ridiculously affronted, that John started to laugh. It didn’t take long for Sherlock to huff a laugh as well. 

“It must be the massage,” said Sherlock contemplatively. 

They stayed for a bit in a companionable silence, Sherlock staring at the ceiling and John staring at him. 

“I should probably,” said Sherlock and gestured vaguely. John didn’t say anything and it took Sherlock a few more minutes to get up at shuffle back to his room. “Get ready for breakfast, maybe someone new will show up,” said Sherlock before closing the door.

John stayed in bed for a little bit after Sherlock left, and stretched contentedly in the luxurious sheets. So what if he was in love with a man who couldn’t return his feelings? Sherlock was special in many ways and he chose John for companionship, to share his work and his flat. They might not have a very conventional relationship and John was not sure it was even possible with Sherlock, but they had something. Sherlock made John feel butterflies in his stomach, even after all this time they lived together. Nobody made him feel this way before, not his first crushes as a teenager, not even the girl he dreamt about marrying before leaving for Afghanistan. John was not the one to read cheesy romance novels, but at the moment, he could have sworn every cliché had a grain of truth in it. Apparently, lanky annoying gits was what did it for him. Who would have thought?

The breakfast was self-served and people were mingling about, chatting and being friendly. The policy worked – most people were in groups, and tables for six were mostly full. John met the women from yesterday and they invited him to join at their table, which John gladly accepted, despite the eye roll from Sherlock. 

“So did you two meet here?” John asked the women when they sat down with their scrambled eggs and coffee.

“Yes, actually. We came here at least once a month to rejuvenate a bit,” said the brunette, Jane.

“So that’s the secret of your youthful looks,” answered John with a wink and the woman giggled. Sherlock pushed his plate away and leaned back, crossing his arms and scanning the crowd. John glanced at the direction he was looking, but nothing caught his eye. 

“I like this place so much, and Kristen became such a good friend,” said Jane and smiled at the other woman. 

“It’s like having sleepovers when we were schoolgirls! Except the wine and the massages,” exclaimed Kristen excitedly. 

“That’s exactly what I said to Francis the other day! I said – if you’re allowed to have sleepovers, I’m allowed my SPA weekends,” agreed Jane.

“Your son shouldn’t,-”

“My daughter. Francis is my daughter.”

“Oh yes, silly me. Anyway, your children have no ground to complain, I have always said that.”

Jane looked a bit uncomfortable for a moment. John liked Jane – she was smart and elegant, while Kristen was disagreeable for some inexplicable reason. It was like she was trying too hard to be friendly, but maybe John was just too accustomed dealing with extreme introverts.

After breakfast, John and Sherlock went to the Turkish baths. John watched Sherlock relax in the steamy room. Just transport, my ass, though John. Sherlock was clearly enjoying himself and John added the baths as something he might suggest during one of Sherlock’s moods, if there were decent and less expensive ones back in London. 

“Yes, a couple of blocks away from that Vietnamese restaurant we went to last week,” said Sherlock out of the blue.

“What?”

“You were wondering about Turkish baths in London. I’ve been to a good place, and you’re welcome to join next time.”

“Oh. Alright then. Yeah, it might be a good idea during colder months.”

Sherlock focused on the couple near the water fountain. The two men were about the same age as John, clearly together. They were not obscene or overly PDA, like younger people newly in relationship tend to be, but their affection was obvious and genuine. Sherlock stared at them and John wondered, if it had something to do with the case, or was Sherlock just curious, maybe even jealous of their intimacy. Right now Sherlock had John as a friend and seemed content enough, but what if he started craving more and found somebody for himself? It was hard to imagine a person suitable for Sherlock that was not his clone. John wasn’t even sure about that hypothetical person’s gender, not to mention any other traits. John would have guessed Sherlock was gay, but maybe even Sherlock himself didn’t know that for sure. The two men that Sherlock observed, with their lingering looks and gentle caresses, left, and Sherlock relaxed once again. 

John tried to contain himself, he really did, but every man had its limits. 

“Do you ever wish you had a relationship like that?” John nodded to the direction the couple went to.

“No. Why would I?” answered Sherlock with a put upon sight, as he tended to do, when John asked of such things. At least he answered, so John probed further. 

“Were you ever in one?”

“Not really, no,” Sherlock admitted, to a great surprise of John. Sherlock usually either rolled his eyes, or ignored such questions altogether. 

“So when Mycroft tries to hackle you by saying you’re a virgin…”

“He’s just being annoying,” said Sherlock in a tone that suggested it should have been obvious. “And I’m not alarmed of sex, by the way. Just indifferent.”

“Asexual, then?”

Sherlock sighted again, and John expected the conversation to end, but after a moment, Sherlock answered.

“I am not asexual by the most accepted definition of the term. I just don’t have a pleasant experience with it.”

“Oh.” Dark thoughts flew through John’s mind, and who could have done something like that to Sherlock. John had to keep his hands fisted to prevent from reaching out to  
Sherlock and caressing him in an offer of comfort. Sherlock might be dismissive of bodily pleasures, but that didn’t mean there was a reason for him to suffer, especially in what was supposed to be an expression of desire and attraction. Sherlock glanced at John and once again denied the assumptions.

“Stop, John, I didn’t mean anything like that. It’s just that my first time was horrible for both parties involved, mainly due to inexperience and lack of clear communication of expectations. And the subsequent ones were tedious, so I simply stopped bothering with the thing completely.”

That was more than Sherlock had ever offered about himself. It explained a lot, but it still baffled John, that somebody had a chance of intimacy with Sherlock, the most remarkable human there was, and made the experience unpleasant. If Sherlock allowed to, he should be cherished and cared for, and somebody had that chance and didn’t take it. It was a sad thought, especially since John could do nothing about that. 

“There’s more to relationship than sex,” said John. He was just thinking out loud at this point.

“I know,” answered Sherlock after some time. “But I would prefer to have the whole package if it ever came to that.”

“I sure you will. There must be someone out there for you,” reassured John, though the though made him sad.

“Maybe,” said Sherlock and glanced at John with a soft smile on his lips. John’s heart soared – was Sherlock hinting that John was the one?  
Sherlock closed his eyes again. John kept glancing at Sherlock, but the detective stayed still, occasionally licking the gathered steam from his lips. John never saw Sherlock so relaxed during a case and he started wondering if Sherlock simply gave up, because the place forced one to loosen up and disconnect from worries. They stayed in the baths for a long time, enjoying the humid heat, and John’s mind slowly cleared of thoughts. Afterwards they had a light lunch and John decided to take a walk outside, since the weather finally allowed it. Sherlock said he had some thinking to do, so John went alone.

John spent a couple of very pleasant hours in the park around the SPA, nodding in greeting to other patrons, which were milling around. Thankfully, none of them wanted John’s company, so he could aimlessly wander around, admire the well-kept flower beds and carefully trimmed decorative bushes. John expected to do some serious thinking, but in reality, his mind was blanker than ever. Sherlock’s confession was simmering in the back of his mind, but he had yet to decide if it meant anything. He and Sherlock were growing closer lately, but it was difficult to say if it lead to something. These things were hard to guess with any person and were damn near impossible when it came to Sherlock, so John stopped trying and just enjoyed the walk. 

When he came back, Sherlock was sprawled in one of the armchairs in John’s room, deep in thought, fingers under his chin and eyes closed. He didn’t move when John came in. Sherlock’s head was leaned back over the armchair, and John reached out to shuffle his hair to draw his attention, but when John’s fingers touched the soft silky curls, the intended movement turned into a caress, and John just kept on stroking Sherlock’s hair. Half of John’s mind was screaming at him to stop and apologise and the other was greedily trying to memorise all the wonderful sensations. Sherlock leaned more in to the touch. In for a penny, thought John and gently scratched Sherlock’s scalp. Sherlock’s fingers relaxed, but he didn’t move, so John repeated that a few more times. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked straight at John. The gaze was full of acceptance and trust, and at that moment, John became sure that they will get there in the end.

The problem was, John had no bloody idea were that was.

At dinner, they were seated with the charming elderly couple, who were content with very little conversation. It was fine by John, who felt drained, though there wasn’t much in activities that day. They didn’t have much time left – John had to be back at work a day after tomorrow and Sherlock hated being away from London for that long, but Sherlock wasn’t showing any of the distress signs he did an evening before. Maybe he had a theory and just waited to test it. John would have appreciated being more informed, but this time he figured it was his own fault as he fell asleep while Sherlock was explaining his thoughts. 

That night, John woke up from a loud noise. Sherlock was standing in his room, the adjoining door wide open. 

“Wake up, John, Mycroft is here.” 

“Mycroft? What happened, what’s wrong?”

“I’ve solved the case. Hurry up and dress, we’ll arrest the spy.”

“Who was it?” asked John while hopping on one leg, trying to put his jeans on.

“Not the staff, John. And thank you, I would never have figured it out if it wasn’t for you.”

“Thanks? What did I do?”

“You were your usual self,” answered Sherlock as they walked out of the room and down the long corridor. It was still quiet, too early for patrons and staff to be up. They stopped in front of one of the rooms, and Sherlock shushed John, when he tried to ask something. They didn’t have to wait long – Mycroft arrived with a couple of men behind him, nodded for John, and knocked on the door. Nothing happened and Mycroft knocked again. They had to wait some more until the door finally opened. Jane stood behind them, looking more scared than surprised when she saw the group of them. 

“Good morning, Mrs Warstein,” said Mycroft. “I think it would be best if we came in.”

Jane looked as if she wanted to say something, but then she just nodded and allowed them in her room. It was very similar to John’s, but there wasn’t an adjoining door in it. 

“It’s not very wifely to steal your husband’s business secrets,” said Mycroft as he settled in an armchair. Jane sat in front of him and the rest of them remained standing.

“He will never forgive me, will he?” said Jane, looking genuinely distressed. John expected to catch a hard criminal, a seasoned spy able to blend in and snatch important documents from carelessly left laptops, not a housewife who was barely keeping from sobbing. 

“Your husband’s forgiveness is not my domain. Your sentence though, largely is, so I suggest you tell us everything,” said Mycroft.

“I didn’t meant to. Kristen approached me here, a year ago and convinced me my husband was doing something illegal,” Jane managed a sad grin. “I became worried and gave Kristen financial data from my husband’s home computer. Mostly it was old or public, but there were some confidential documents.”

“Kristen is being transported to a secure facility as we speak,” said Mycroft. “Even if your husband did anything illegal, Kristen had no means to do anything– she is an industrial spy from Germany.”

“Germany, huh,” said Jane. “I pegged her more of a French.”

“Why did you kept giving her confidential information?”

“Partly because I was afraid. She hinted about blackmail. And partly because,” Jane looked away, breathing deeply to keep tears at bay. “I have a degree in software development. I was good at what I did. But then I met Ben, got married and had kids. At first I was glad I didn’t have to go to work anymore, but soon it became insufferably boring.”

Sherlock, who was typing something in his phone, lifted his head up to look at Jane. 

Jane smoothed the wrinkles of her nightgown with her palms. “I know it’s the worst excuse I can offer, but Kristen brought back excitement. I was important, I had something else besides the cleaning and feeding my kids.”

“So you sold your nation to a foreign spy?”

“No, I provided a sympathetic woman with information so she could help my family. I didn’t expect it to go so out of hand.”

Mycroft raised a disbelieving eyebrow. Jane looked at him straight in the eyes.

“I’m ashamed of what I’ve done, but in my defence, I did my best to not give away too much. Just enough to give her an impression I was working for her, until I found the solution.”

“And what solution would that be, Mrs Warstein?” asked Mycroft.

“I told you I was a software developer. I coded a discrete virus that transferred all her files to my server, including the physical location of her device. And then it should scramble all the files in her end.”

Sherlock made an approving grin. Mycroft and Sherlock had one of their wordless conversations that annoyed John so much, and then Mycroft heaved a put upon sigh.

“You have my overly sentimental brother to thank for this, Mrs Warstein, but I have a proposition for you. We the British government are reluctant to let the talent of the people go to waste if it can serve our great nation. If you would be so kind to join the team of IT specialists that defend Great Britain from cyber threats, maybe we will be able to arrange a less harsh punishment for you crime as well as some discretion,” Mycroft said this in a tone that made it clear Jane had very little choice in this, but she looked relieved and was nodding eagerly even before Mycroft finished. 

“Come along, John, our role here is complete,” said Sherlock and went out of the room. 

“That was a good thing you did there, Sherlock,” said John once they closed the door behind them.

“It’s entirely your fault. You infected me with compassion.” Sherlock’s tone was appreciative.

“Can’t bring myself to regret it,” teased John.

“As long as it’s contained. It wouldn’t do to make a habit out of letting go of criminals.”

“Good thing you have a doctor in the house, then.”

“Yes, it has proven to be most convenient,” Sherlock’s smile was soft and happy and it took John’s breath away. They were openly flirting and John was moments away from blushing. It was ridiculous and wonderful. Sherlock was never this open with John before and John wanted to snatch the moment and never let it go. The shift in their relationship was definite and John was very eager to find out where it led. He was a little afraid – the thing that was growing between him and Sherlock was fragile and John would never forgive himself if he destroyed it just because he lacked patience, but on the other hand, they both waited long enough. John took a deep calming breath and tried a more neutral topic. 

“So how did you figure it out?”

“They were trying too hard. They kept emphasizing how good friends they were, but none of the signs of real friendship were there. Jane showed a lot of signs of distress and mistrust and Kristen didn’t even know Jane had a daughter instead of a son – so I looked into Kristen’s background and it was a straight road from that.”

“How did you become such an expert on friendship all of a sudden?”

“Stop fishing for compliments, John, you know the answer perfectly well.”

That did it. John went beetroot red and rushed to his room with a mumbled excuse about needing to pack. He folded his shirts and collected his toiletries, his mind buzzing with the need to figure out the next step. They should sit down and talk openly, tell each other their expectations, but John knew this was never happening. They would have done it long time ago ago, if they were capable. He could just march in to Sherlock’s room, take him in his arms and kiss him, but he risked a punch to the jaw and an end to the most important friendship John had in his life. There was always a chance he just interpreted things the way he wanted to and Sherlock was just friendlier because he was less stressed out. John stood with a ball of dirty socks in his hands, lost in thought, until Sherlock came in to ask if he was ready to go. John nodded, threw the socks in the luggage and went out after Sherlock. 

The train home was constantly full, people moving about. Sherlock entertained John with deductions, and complained about the awful sandwiches, but there were also shy glances and bit more restlessness than usual. The need to do something was becoming more intense the closer they were to home, but John didn‘t dare anything with so many people around, not even asking a proper question.

The ride in the taxi gave John a little more courage. Sherlock’s hand was resting between them and John felt bold enough to lightly cover Sherlock’s gloved fingers with his own, testing the waters, to determine whether it was the unusual place that allowed Sherlock to act more human and warmer towards John, or was it a true shift in their relationship. 

Sherlock pulled his hand away.

John‘s heart sank. He tried hard not to show his disappointment and keep his breath under control. He could never fool Sherlock, but it seemed important keep at least a little of his dignity. John wanted to turn away from Sherlock, but the window would reflect his expression perfectly, so John kept his eyes fixed firmly to the front. Nevertheless, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Sherlock very slowly removing his gloves, putting them neatly on his lap, and then his hand returned to the middle of the seat, this time covering John’s.  
John gasped. It was as hard to contain his joy as it was the disappointment a moment ago, so he kept his eyes fixed to the front and concentrated on keeping in the giggles that threatened to escape. He risked a glance towards Sherlock, who was equally rigid, except for a shy smile on his lips. John was sure Sherlock didn’t even know it was there. 

John was dazed all the way home, and even when he climbed out of the taxi in front of their door. Sherlock, as always, fled the taxi first, leaving John to pay and the familiarity of it was reassuring. Still, going in to the flat was a daunting task. 

Inside, John found Sherlock already out of his coat, fiddling with the chemistry set in the kitchen, but his movements lacked their usual grace and confidence. 

“Sherlock,” John called softly, unable to wait any longer. Sherlock jerked and looked at John wild eyed, and that made John feel so protective, he forgot his own uncertainty. 

“Sherlock,” whispered John and moved closer. “It’s only me. You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

“I’m not afraid,” Sherlock tried to scoff and failed miserably. John couldn’t bear to look at the raw emotions on Sherlock’s face, so he grabbed Sherlock’s shirt, pulled him closer and rested his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock not only didn’t push him away, he hugged him loosely, caressing his back.

“Is it really me that you want, John?” murmured Sherlock to the crown of John’s head. “From all the options available for you, is it really me? Because if it isn‘t, let’s just stop – I couldn't bare having you for just a moment. I will not be able to survive, if you’ll change your mind afterwards. You may have other options, but for me there are no other possibilities – it’s either you, or nobody at all.”

“Sherlock,” breathed John, still griping Sherlock’s shirt tightly in his hands, not able to let go just yet. John was overwhelmed, clutching to Sherlock like a life line. He never thought he could ever have this, didn’t even dare to hope, and as this was happening he found himself unable to cope. And yet, it was Sherlock who thought he was risking. The sound‘s that came out of John’s throat were undignified but he could no more stop them as he could let go of the fabric in his fingers. 

“John, my dearest John,” Sherlock whispered above him and John whimpered. Sherlock’s hand was resting on John’s nape, and slowly it started creeping higher, fingers slipping in the short hair. Sherlock was careful, as if not sure if this was allowed and John would have laughed, if he had any sense in him at the moment – as if he could ever deny Sherlock  
anything, nearly from the moment they met.

Slowly, John’s hands moved from the front, to hugging Sherlock around the back, pulling him closer. Lifting his head to face Sherlock seemed like an impossible task until he felt Sherlock’s lips on the crown of his head. John lifted is chin up, and Sherlock bend his down, their cheeks brushing, keeping as much skin to skin contact as possible. Slowly, carefully, their lips found each other, pressing firmly, both of them not daring to move at first. Even this tame kiss made John’s head spin. John’s lips parted, and Sherlock hungrily chased the movement, making the kiss more heated. This wasn't the sort of kiss that necessarily led somewhere – this was the needed-like-breathing one, messy and desperate. John only noticed himself being aroused when Sherlock slit his leg between his and gasped at the contact with John’s erection. 

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” John backed away a little, “we don’t need to do anything you don’t want to.”

“John!” huffed Sherlock.

“Alright, alright,” John looked back at Sherlock, who looked impatient, hungry, eyes roaming about John’s face, but hazed, without their usual focus. Being in the centre of such need robbed away all the ideas of taking it slow. 

“Can I take you to bed?” asked John.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, grabbed John by the hand and tugged him towards bedroom so eagerly he tripped on his own feet. 

The embodiment of gracefulness and aloofness, the world’s only consulting detective and overall an incredible human was tripping over his own feet for John Watson. The sight took John’s breath away and he momentarily felt self-conscious and undeserving, but Sherlock glared back at him, as if daring to say anything and John just had to swoop in for another kiss. And so they stumbled, clutching to each other, only vaguely keeping the direction they intended to go to. It was alright though, as the flat wasn’t that big, and those  
bruises would heal in no time. 

They fell in to the bed with their clothes still on. John wanted to undress Sherlock, to finally get his hands and lips on naked skin, but at the same time, he was afraid to, afraid of hurting Sherlock and making him change his mind. At least, there wasn’t much to be self-conscious about, as they both already saw each other undressed, though admittedly, never in such a state. Buttons refused to open, zippers stuck, but at least some of the hastiness dissipated a little and when finally clothes were rid of, John could spare a few thoughts of how he wanted to go with this. If previous attempts were disappointing for Sherlock, this one had to be different. John tried to pour all his feelings in to the touches and caresses, to take care of Sherlock the way nobody did before. He was trying so hard, it took him a moment to notice that Sherlock was barely responding. John lifted his head from the spot on Sherlock’s chest he was kissing and looked at Sherlock’s face. Sherlock was lying with his eyes firmly shut, a bit too rigid for someone who was supposed to be having the best night of his life. John would have backed off completely, but he was afraid that Sherlock would feel rejected, so he just gently caressed Sherlock’s cheekbone, waiting for him to open his eyes. 

“Alright?” asked John, when Sherlock finally did. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock looked regretful, “My head, I sometimes…” Sherlock waved vaguely.

“I know. It’s fine.” John kissed the tip Sherlock’s nose. “Want to slow down a bit?”

“Not really, no. Can I try,-”

“Yes,” John agreed before Sherlock could finish, because there shouldn’t be anything Sherlock had to feel awkward asking, not in bed with John.

Sherlock flipped them over. At first he only looked, like John was one of the crime scenes he had to asses, but then began his slow and methodical exploration of John’s body. John tried to be more involved, but Sherlock gently, but firmly put John’s hands down. It was strange at the beginning, not doing anything back, but then John understood what was happening – Sherlock was not trying to please John, he was taking pleasure for himself, and John was just the one who happened to be around. The only thing John could contribute was his reactions to what Sherlock was doing, as Sherlock eagerly collected them all – John’s moans and grunts as well as squirms and giggles. Sherlock quickly found the erogenous zones John himself knew about, like the spot under his ear, and then discovered some new ones, like the inside of his elbow. Sherlock was very thorough but tortuously slow, and he deliberately avoided the place John wanted to be touched the most. John doubted he ever was so turned on without any chance of release. 

Sherlock descended down to John’s foot and gently massaged it. John shrugged – it was pleasant, but not particularly arousing, Sherlock’s face down there between his legs doing more than the touch itself. Sherlock grinned and swooped up, covering John with his body. He looked much more eager and alert, happy even, and John lost his patience and lifted his head up for the kiss. Sherlock likewise descended and it rubbed them together deliciously. Sherlock’s eyes clouded over and he repeated the action, and so there was nothing left but to give up to the timeless rhythm. They chased the kisses between puffs of breath and chanted each other’s names with moans and grunts and John quickly lost himself in the pleasure. Sherlock fixed his gaze on John’s face and that look trapped John in the moment so strongly he was afraid he won’t be able to survive the sensation. 

John floated in the high so strong, he barely felt Sherlock still moving, but he was unable to properly respond. Finally, Sherlock went rigid, and the look on his face was worth all those years of waiting. Sherlock relaxed and John closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, Sherlock was deeply asleep, slumped on John’s shoulder, out like a light. John caressed Sherlock’s naked shoulder, relaxing himself and settling for sleep, but it wasn’t as quick to come. There were too many emotions bubbling in his chest.

Fifteen or so minutes later Sherlock woke up in that unnerving way of his, fully alert the moment he opened his eyes. 

“Let’s do it again,” he murmured, already nibbling John’s neck. John laughed.

“Sherlock, as pleasant as this is, I’m not a teenager anymore. I doubt I’ll be up for another round tonight.”

Sherlock lifted his head to gaze at John with his you’re-an-idiot look, and then fully dedicated himself to the task of proving that John was, as always, wrong. 

Twice.


End file.
